"I'll let 'em go now," he said.
One of his wood-lice, however, stayed motionless where he put it.
"Wot's the matter with it?" said William, curiously.
"I 'speck me's the matter wif it," said Thomas succinctly. "Now, get me some lickle fishes, an' tadpoles an' water sings," he went on cheerfully.
William turned round from his blackberry-bush.
"Well, I won't," he said decidedly. "I've had enough!"
"You've had 'nuff brekfust," said Thomas sternly. "I've found a lickle tin for the sings, so be kick. Oo, here's a fly! A green fly! It's sittin' on my finger. Does it like me 'cause it's sittin' on my finger?"
"No," said William, turning a purple-stained countenance round scornfully.
It must be nearly night. He didn't want to be too hard on them, to make his mother ill or anything. He wanted to be as kind as possible. He'd forgive them at once when he got home. He'd ask for one or two things he wanted, as well as the new bugle. A new penknife, and an engine with a real boiler.
"Waffor does it not like me?" persisted Thomas.